Pain of Comfort
by MrsJoshHutcherson112
Summary: The bloodshot eyes that spoke days of endless crying; the hollowness evident in her veridian orbs. He hasn't even seen her smile in weeks. Her heart is broken. My entry for AmberCahill's 'Never Forgotten' contest.


**This is my entry for AmberCahill's 'Never Forgotten' contest. It's a bit poorly edited because I don't think I'll have time enough to do that AND post quickly.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own The 39 Clues.**

* * *

He looks up at the dreary, gray sky, storm clouds blocking out all hope for sunlight. The grass is green, but dull instead of the bright color spring grass is supposed to be. Fog surrounds the gardens, hinting at another upcoming April shower. The three tents set up in a line in the midst of bushes and flowers struggle to hold themselves in place, battling for supremacy over the blowing wind. Everything seems to have taken on a grayish hue, which, to him, seems perfectly fitting. This is not meant to be a cheerful day.

Many gather to take their seats, wondering how long this is going to take. Some have come just so they won't look bad by staying home; others are silently weeping in their chairs. The former disgust him - he would have prefered they just stay in their homes and let the real mourners comfort each other when needed.

The Holt family, to give one example. Mainly the parents. The younger sisters whisper solemnly to one another, occasionally glancing up to give sympathetic looks to peoples' backs; the eldest boy sits in his seat, fidgeting nervously in the atmosphere he is unaccustomed to. But the parents stand by their children, arguing about nonsense like sports and weather. They are ones who should not have come. They don't care. They aren't welcome, in his eyes. They aren't good enough to be here.

They are not the only ones, of course. There are many faces he doesn't recognize, and to think they could possibly have associated with his mother or father enough to gain some sort of respectable friendship with them is absurd. He can tell by their bored faces that they're here only in a respectful way. They don't care. They aren't welcome, in his eyes. They aren't good enough to be here.

He looks around at other faces, some tear-stained, others blank and expressionless. Dry. Tear-free. Unworthy faces of people with no respect for the dead or the ones who wish they could take it all back, do something over, somehow make their deaths less painful to bear on their loved ones' weakened shoulders.

His gaze automatically moves to her with this thought, sitting a few rows in front of him on the other side of the makeshift shelter. Her brother sits beside her, a comforting arm rests around her shaking shoulders. Her face is obstructed by hands that try to hold the tears back, to keep them out of sight of passerby. The boy speaks a few words of comfort, but they do little to stop the flow of salty tears.

Even with her hands in the way, he can see the pain and regret etched across her features. The bloodshot eyes that spoke days of endless crying; the hollowness evident in her veridian orbs, coupled with sleeplessness. Her hair is always haphazardly thrown up and out of the way so she doesn't have to constantly push it out of her eyes. He hasn't even seen her smile in weeks.

Her heart is broken.

He knows what that feels like. He lives with it every day.

He feels as if he isn't quite living anymore - his body is nothing but an empty shell, moving through daily life robotically, without but two emotions, and they are the same as he now sees in her eyes.

Pain. Regret.

Every day is another day to remember, another day to feel the cold embrace of solitude; he is alone. He will always be alone.

Not a minute goes by where he doesn't think about what could have been - how he could have prevented all of the death that surrounds and haunts them now, like the fog hovering across the grounds. But he knows in the bottom of his heart that there is nothing he could have done to make a difference.

This time, she sobs audibly. His train of thought derails momentarily and he looks up to see her leaning against her brother now, as if she's falling and he is her only connection back to the cliff she has fallen from. He is her world, just like Natalie had been his. But the major difference is that Amy Cahill managed to keep a solid grip on her connection.

Ian Kabra has lost his. And it has cost him everything that matters.

A man around the age of seventy walks along the front section of the tent, mounting the small stage to address the crowd of a few hundred. The podium he stands in front of is made of glossy oak wood and proudly bears the Cahill family crest on it's front side. From his point of view, he can clearly make out the images of the four family branches; all animals seem to glare at him, and the red of the Lucian section stains his mind with visions of gore and the symbolism of his life draining away, just as blood would wash through a shower drain.

"The first thing I would like to say," Fiske Cahill starts, "is how much I appreciate all of you gathering here today to commemorate the loss we have all shared. I realize that a lot of you have important things to do, and I apologize, but I think we are all allowed to take a break." The smallest of smiles appears on his face for no more than two seconds before it falls again.

So he feels it, too. The burning desire to somehow make it all go away so as not to see his loved ones hurt any longer.

The Madrigal leader speaks a bit longer before asking if anyone else would like to say a few words for the departed. No one stands.

Fiske looks solemnly around at the bored faces of his extended family before nodding shortly and shuffling some papers on the podium. He is just about to exit the stage when a girl's voice quietly rings out among the crowd, so soft one might not have heard her if it wasn't so quiet.

"Uncle Fiske?" She requests permission to speak and he faintly smiles, nods, and exits the stage to give her room.

She mounts the platform, shaking slightly as the cool breeze brushes her bare arms. He wrinkles his nose a bit, too, as the same wind rages against the lofty tent.

Eyes a tearful mess, face red with bottled emotions, shelter threatening to blow over, and worried glances cast by uncle and brother, Amy Cahill grips the podium with pale fingers and opens her mouth to speak.

No sound escapes her lips.

She rubs her eyes, willing the waterworks to shut off for just a few moments so she can say what she needs to let out. It doesn't seem to work, but she pushes on with a determined jaw.

Through gritted teeth, she speaks. "E-Evan Tolliver was the kindest, most selfless, warm-hearted person I've ever known."

She takes a hard swallow and continues, slightly embarrassed, looks down and rubs the solid wood in thought. "He was one of those people that would do anything to make you smile, even if it meant driving for two hours just to get you a smoothie." She smiles a bit. "Not that he ever did that."

The crowd chuckles quietly; her voice grows stronger and her words more powerful with each breath she takes. Her tears slow, but don't completely fade.

"And he was my best friend," she adds. The thought that Sinead Starling would be a bit defensive at these words crosses his mind, but he looks over and sees polite encouragement gleaming in the girl's eyes.

Her face turns serious and her brow furrows in concentrated thought. "He fought for a cause he wasn't even a part of, and it wasn't his duty or anything to help. This was our battle, our choice. Like so many others'."

He swallows and looks around at the faces gathered, listening intently at her speech. So many unfamiliar faces, now daring to plaster compassion and understanding on their expressions in sympathy for the poor girl who has just lost a friend. It still isn't real. They're still just pretending, for her sake now. They don't know the magnitude of this pain he is feeling, the same pain she feels with him. They can never know. They will never know.

"But he chose. He chose to help this family in our hour of need. Whether we deserved his help or not, he offered his services, and he was killed for it." Her voice is hollow now, and he feels he has missed something. Was her voice so robotic a few seconds before?

Her back is straight and she sounds so mechanical and formal as she speaks. Her demeanor has completely flipped. "So many others lost their lives in the same manner. William McIntyre, Natalie Kabra, Erasmus Yilnaz, Alistair Oh." There seems to be a slight pause before she adds, "Isabel Kabra."

He can't help but gasp a bit as that name floats through the air, catching the wind and echoing in his ears. Offered her services? Chose to help the family? Killed for it? She had been the cruelest of people, murdering whomever she desired, going against all she had believed in and fighting to win the feud for her new chosen side. And she had willingly gone in the end. Is that heroic? Is that valiant?

Not in his eyes. She will never be honorable in his eyes.

"This is why we're here," Amy finishes, and he snaps back into focus. "To honor those who gave up their lives to save us and the rest of the world."

He wonders why she has cut her speech short and sees the glimmer start to come back into her eyes.

She looks around the crowd in a gesture that asks with no words. Would anyone else like to speak?

A woman around the age of forty stands and, with tearful eyes, climbs the three steps onto the makeshift stage. Amy leaves then, hardly stepping off before the salty water begins to slide once more.

She is immediately welcomed into the comforting embrace of her great uncle, his suit coat's shoulder staining with her tears.

He doesn't pay attention to the people who go on stage to speak about friends that have died for the 'cause'. His focus remains solely on her throughout the rest of the memorial, until Fiske finally tells everyone to go up and say their goodbyes to the many flower stands in front, dedicated to lost loved ones. He likes the idea of flowers. Maybe they will create some calming effect on someone else who is still grieving.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ian notices the brother stand up and leave his sister in the row of chairs alone. He walks over to a girl standing in the back - she embraces him and gives him a tearful smile.

He looks back at her, the cinnamon ponytail swaying in the wind, the slacks and simple blouse seeming strangely appropriate to him. There is a sudden tug in his gut, and something inside of him makes him stand up and walk over to the girl who is staring blankly at the many relatives that fake grief.

He stands awkwardly for a moment, waiting for her to acknowledge him before he sits. She doesn't. But he sits anyway.

Her eyes fade in and out as she loses focus on what's happening in front of her, like she's losing herself inside of her subconscious.

He wishes he can do that.

Lose himself in his mind, hide in a dark space where no one can find him and he can forget the pain, the regret, the frustration. But at the same time, the prospect of being so vulnerable scares him so much he jumps in his metal chair, shocking her back into reality, and she, too, jumps.

"Oh," she says, her gaze landing on him. "Uh...hi."

"Hello," he greets, swallowing.

No more words pass between them, and her eyes wander again, first to her uncle, who is speaking to a man with a terrible comb-over, and then to her brother, who talks with the same girl he has seen him with before.

A sudden thought enters his mind and barrels out of his mouth before he can stop the question from escaping. "Who is your brother speaking with?"

Amy turns to look behind them and she gives a small smile, her green orbs meeting his amber. "Her? That's Dan's girlfriend, Sophie."

He nods simply, already disinterested in this topic, but it leads him to another thought. "Where's Jake?" he asks, genuinely curious as to why the Rosenbloom brother has not attended to comfort his girlfriend. It seems to him that that is the gentlemanly thing to do.

Her gaze drops to her hands and her face heats up with a new reddish complexion. "I...I didn't invite him."

"Why not?" he wonders, and again, confusion crosses his conscious.

She sniffs briefly and answers, "I thought it might be a bit inappropriate."

Ah. This makes sense. Hanging onto a boy while crying over another? The confusion dissipates and Ian regrets ever bringing it up.

He clears his throat and hands her a handkerchief from his pocket, which she takes and gives a questioning look at.

"To wipe your eyes," he explains shortly.

She nods in thanks and dabs her cheeks and eyelids with the red silk cloth. She offers it back to him, but he gently pushes it back.

"You may keep it," he says, attempting to keep the slight disgust off of his face. "It seems you need it more than I do."

She searches his features for a moment. "Are you sure?" she says, raising a skeptical eyebrow at his mask of nonchalance.

"What does that mean?" he retorts, throwing a smirk on his face, albeit halfheartedly.

She turns in her seat to better face him, her reddened eyes now dry as her thoughts turn to concern for his well-being - enter, one of the only compassionate people Ian Kabra has ever known.

"I know what you're going through, Ian," she states, placing a tentative hand on top of his that rests on the chair-back. "Take me, for example. I'm a complete mess!"

The ghost of a smile appears on his lips. It is sort of warming to know that the most caring of friends has dropped everything to offer comfort to the one who deserves it least.

"I would say you are handling things quite well for someone of your position," he comments. The back of his hand tingles with the underlying warmth of hers.

She gives a barely concealed snort of protest and her hand drops to her lap; she fiddles with a small golden bracelet and he feels a subtle flow of disappointment at the loss of contact. "You look like you're coping better than I am."

If only she knew. He winces.

"...I may or may not be handling it in the wrong ways," he answers carefully. He hopes he's said it in a way that doesn't raise her worry level.

Her eyes bore into his, red-rimmed and bleary, and some of the things he has thought seem to be clarified in that one simple look.

She will worry no matter what he says or does. There is no way he will break through her determined barriers. There is no possibility that he will come out of this conversation un-comforted. And these, from what he gathers, are unchanging fact.

* * *

Worry.

That is what she's feeling right now.

Not pain. Not regret. Not grief. Only worry.

Worry and concern for the sake of a boy she used to despise.

How many times has he hurt her? Countless.

How much frustration and anger has he caused her? Endless.

And how much did he make her want to hug him in this moment?

"I may or may not be handling it in the wrong ways."

How static can someone be?

She stares into his eyes and for a second sees a burning desire to run. Run from her? Run from his problems? Run from everything?

Perhaps all three.

He doesn't realize that she wants to do the exact same thing. Run from it all, escape from her accusing conscience and never return to the hatred of broken families. The Tollivers, for example, who never want to see her again. The Wizards, besides Jonah, who still place blame on her shoulders for little cousin Pheonix nearly dying in the harsh wilderness. And from what she has gathered in the short amount of time spent next to him, maybe even Ian Kabra, who has just thrown up all of his defenses and shielded himself from her searching gaze. And maybe, she tells herself, she deserves it.

But a little blame is not going to keep her from trying.

"I can't help if you don't tell me what's on your mind," she says, eyes still intently locked onto his.

He snickers a little and starts to protest. "Look, I appreciate - "

"Ian."

"There is nothing wrong - "

"Ian."

"If you would be so polite as to not inter - "

She grabs his arm suddenly with a grip that chokes off his words in her haste to put her two cents in.

"Ian, I know something is wrong," she says.

"Well, what if there is?" he shoots back, annoyance flashing across his irises. "It's not as if there is any way to help, no matter how hard anyone tries."

Her voice lowers to a whisper when she realizes people are turning their heads at Ian's loud words, and her retaliation comes out hushed. "You make it sound like no one else is going through the same thing, as if you're alone in this."

"Oh, please. No one's emotions can possibly compare to what I feel now," Ian spits, unaware of her flinch.

"Really?" she asks, a bit defensive now that he is questioning her pain and turning it into something that should not have as big of an impact on her life as it has. "No one? You'd better be absolutely positive before you start throwing that around."

"Yes. No one," he clarifies. "No one here knows what it's like to lose a sibling OR a mother, albeit one that was not remotely likeable."

She feels the familiar pin-prick of tears welling in her eyelids and she makes no attempt to wipe them away. "Don't you think I know what that feels like? Parents, grandmother, uncle - all gone."

Understanding lights in his eyes, but her words melt his walls faster than he can react.

"Believe me when I say I know what it's like to lose someone you love." Her voice grows softer as the fire in her heart diminishes.

"I..." He begins quietly, trying first to sort things out in his mind before he lets the wrong words slip again. "I didn't mean to imply that you did not."

She exhales and looks across the gardens, as if she can see past the fog and across the creek - where the family cemetery lies just a little farther off. "I'm sorry," she says, suddenly feeling a bit embarrassed. "That wasn't meant to turn the conversation back around to me, but..." She rubs her hands together. "I guess I just don't want you to think that you're alone in this. You, me, Dan, Sinead, Reagan, Jonah, and everybody else - we're all in this together, and we need to come out that way, too. For everyone's sakes."

He sits quietly in his chair, fingers laced together in front of him.

"I just can't picture her not here," he murmurs. "She was always around to understand and talk to. She was the only one I ever _did_ talk to."

This is the first time Amy believes Ian Kabra has ever really begun to let his emotions out, and she listens intently to everything he says.

Ian sighs and looks at all of the people that have gathered around his sister's set of colorful amaryllis flowers. "Maybe that's why I can't talk to anyone else about anything - It just doesn't...feel right."

"Because she was the only one who really understood," Amy finishes.

"Precisely," he agrees.

The two sit in silence, both at a loss of what to say next. There really are no words that will bring their loved ones back, or make their deaths less painful. But maybe talks like these, comforting words that numb the grief, if only a little bit, can push them through to the other side, force their way through the barriers that keep them holding on.

And until a grin breaks across his face, this is what she is thinking. Then she is startled out of her reverie by words that mean more to her in that moment than anything else could have.

"Thank you," he says. "For this."

She smiles along with him, despite the solemn atmosphere.

* * *

Fingers entwined with hers, unshed tears in his eyes, and hair a mess from the unrelenting wind, Dan Cahill makes his way over to his sister and the grieving snake that speak quietly to each other.

"You guys okay?" he asks, worry pinching his gut at the fresh tear streaks across his sister's face.

Then a smile lights both of their faces and he subtly exhales.

"Yeah," his sister replies, letting herself breathe deeply for the first time in what seems like years. "We're okay."

She stands from her seat, Ian following suit, and looks one last time over her shoulder at the six stands of flowers. Alistair Oh's, decorated with asters; Erasmus's with lilacs. Isabel's is covered with with calla lilies next to Natalie's, hers with amaryllis flowers. William McIntyre's is dotted with gladiolus, and Evan's wears purple, blue, and white iris's. All of the set ups are gorgeous, thanks to a few willing Janus artists.

Amy takes one last look back before turning around again.

"So..." interjects Sophie, who stands awkwardly at Dan's side.

Dan grins at her before asking, "You're positive you're okay?"

Amy nods. "For the most part."

Dan tilts his head at Ian. "And how're you holding up?"

"I think I'll be alright in a few years," Ian replies.

Dan doesn't know if he's kidding or not, so he turns back to Amy.

At the redness she sees in her little brothers eyes, she gives a small, warm smile. "You miss them just as much as I do, huh?"

Dan snorts and wipes his face with the back of his hand. "How can I not? Your sulking all over the place and retelling all the awesome memories about them makes it kind of hard to let it go."

She laughs quietly and grips his free hand tightly in hers. "I don't think we need to let it go."

"Just don't forget everything when we do manage to move forward, right?" Sophie puts in.

The awkwardness of her interjection hangs in the air for a few seconds before Dan saves it.

"Yeah," he says. "I guess that's all we can do. We'll be alright."

Amy pulls all three of them into a reluctant and tearful group hug and laughs at their apparent discomfort.

"Yes," she says, chuckling. "We're going to be alright."

* * *

**To be perfectly honest, I don't know why Sophie was included in that group hug.**

**I'm a little worried about this, so please give me feedback! I would really appreciate some CC as well, because I need it :)**

**~Callie~**


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